


Someone to Share it With

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Banter, Drinking & Talking, Holidays, M/M, Noodle Incidents, Past Drug Use, Post-Canon, Sex, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2019-02-03 11:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12747519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair





	Someone to Share it With

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackbird/gifts).



He probably shouldn’t. He probably bends the rules too much when it comes to drinking. He’s pretty sure he’s okay, that this is _not_ like the drugs, but, sometimes, deep down, he has to admit that the doctors and counselors might have a point. But then, this is too tempting. He’ll get just the one bottle, and he’ll have Arthur around to finish it with him. Besides, it’s the fucking holidays, and all that - which is, of course, nothing more than an excuse, a bit of irrelevant bullshit. Curt knows that. Ever since he was a kid, Curt has hated the trite, pathetic music, and the cloying, sickening-sweet movies they’re always shoving down your throat at this time of year, as if anyone’s going to get a happy ending with goddamn _family_ in real life. But he thinks - hopes - that it may be a little less bullshit, now that he has someone to be with once again.

* 

“Shit - you’re blushing,” Curt says.

Arthur’s face is warm, but he’s confident that’s because of the very good, and presumably very expensive, whisky they’ve been sharing. He’s far too old to be embarrassed by Curt’s stories, no matter how outrageous. This one _was_ outrageous, and rather hard to follow - something about the West Berlin stop of Curt’s 1976 tour, a drug-fueled rush of bad ideas, a sex club on some street Curt couldn't find, and a debacle of an interview which he nearly missed in the chaos - but Arthur’s hardly going to blush over it.

“No, I’m not...”

Curt grins.

“' _No I’m not'_ ,” he jokes, imitating Arthur’s accent. Arthur’s not convinced Curt could distinguish his hometown of Manchester from any of a dozen other cities where he performed over the years, yet the accent’s dead on. He doesn’t know if he should be flattered or insulted, and settles, simply, on laughter.

“Anyway, you _are_ ,” Curt insists. “You totally are.” He turns to the nightstand, and makes a face. Arthur follows his gaze. Apparently, Curt knocked his glass to the floor at some point that night, without either of them noticing. Curt shrugs at the mess, then takes a drink straight from the bottle instead.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he says. “We’ve shared more than this tonight. Last night. Whatever.”

Arthur’s only answer is to kiss Curt full on the lips. He drinks in the sharp, warm taste of whisky and cigarette smoke and the gentleness of Curt’s tongue probing his mouth.

They fall back against the headboard in a tangle of limbs. Arthur assumes that Curt has put the bottle down, then all but stops thinking as the blood begins flowing to his groin and he feels Curt’s answering hardness against his leg. He would smile if he weren’t busy sucking on Curt’s tongue; this has to be the best Christmas Eve _(no, Christmas Day, by now)_ that he has had in years. He could spend the whole long weekend in Curt’s bed. Hell, maybe he _will_.

“I want to be on top this time,” Arthur says, breaking the kiss. Curt raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, yeah?”

They tussle, playfully. Arthur is taller, broader-shouldered, and probably stronger, but Curt is a keen learner, and knows every inch of Arthur’s body by now. He uses that knowledge to tickle Arthur into submission, and pins him down, gasping, stifling laughter, and trying half-heartedly to elbow Curt away from that sensitive spot below his ribs.

“I’m not fucking you if you don’t play fair,” Arthur teases.

“Nobody ever warned you about making empty threats, did they?” Curt asks, planting a kiss on the back of Arthur’s neck. “Because, I think you will - and that you’re going to be begging for more.”

*

The light streaming in through the window wakes Arthur. He opens his eyes, shuts them again, and wonders why a late December morning should be so bright. It's not fair. Then he dismisses the thought. There's a dull, subtle ache in his head, though it’s not as bad as he expected. They must have saved enough whisky for Christmas Day.

He smiles. Curt has one arm sprawled over Arthur’s chest and his head tucked against Arthur’s shoulder, so close that Arthur can feel the stubble grazing his bare skin. He tries not to move until Curt stirs on his own, yawning and stretching, his elbow poking Arthur in the side.

“You awake?” Curt asks. His voice is muzzy from sleep.

“Yeah,” Arthur replies.

“Good, ‘cause it’s a - a quarter to noon.”

Arthur has to look at the clock for himself: he hadn’t thought to do so earlier. _So that explains the light_ , he thinks.

“I guess we should get up,” he says. “Get something to eat and all that.”

Curt nods. He sits up and gropes for his cigarettes. The nightstand is littered with not-particularly-seasonal items - a pack of cigarettes, condoms, KY, and of course, the bottle of whisky from the night before. Arthur recalls the glass they knocked to the ground, which they’ll need to clean up later. _It can wait._

“We could do lunch, you know - order pizza or something,” Curt adds, lighting a cigarette.

Arthur laughs. “Or start with toast and water.” He touches Curt’s arm, tentatively. “And, um, I know how you hate it, but happy Christmas.”

A mock-sigh, in answer.

“Thanks,” Curt mutters, before looking away. “I guess. Same.”


End file.
